


Our Day Will Come

by lazarus_girl



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:03:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a year alone in New York, Santana returns to Lima to see McKinley’s Class of 2013 graduate. With Quinn’s encouragement, Santana and Brittany have slowly begun to repair their relationship, but things are not what they once were.</p><p>
  <i>“Brittany’s always been unfinished business.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [steeltraintouch](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=steeltraintouch).



> Follows canon up to 4x04 and departs thereafter. Written for and prompted by @steeltraintouch. Huge thanks to my beta and creative partner in crime, [@cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com/) for the poem that appears in the second chapter. It wouldn’t be the same story without it. Inspired by the Bob Hilliard and Mort Ganson classic, ‘Our Day Will Come.’ I listened to Amy Winehouse’s version a lot during the process of writing. Contains my own alternate headcanon about how the girls met and where Santana fits within the Pierce family. Click [here](https://24.media.tumblr.com/44d48ea94904162e2b7e8695a21cf775/tumblr_n3op35kTiC1txkikoo5_1280.jpg) to see the face claims of featured secondary characters.

You weren’t sure if you should come to graduation, but Quinn made you, practically holding you hostage on Skype until you agreed, pulling the worst three-pronged attack you’ve ever witnessed. And yet, somehow, you’re still here, having begged your father to use up some of his flier miles, since you spent the last of what you had on a ridiculously expensive blue Herve Leger dress, because you wanted to look good, and dress up for the occasion – it’s really this month’s rent and then some, and you’re probably going to end up on the street or on that hideous couch in Rachel and Kurt’s apartment. But sitting here now, a couple of rows back from Brittany’s family, sandwiched between Quinn and Mike so you can’t escape, you know you made the right choice. For once, you’re glad she persevered and you listened to reason. 

Quinn’s first angle of attack was the huge graduation-turned-reunion thing at Brittany’s house. You’ve never missed a year, and of course, Quinn _had_ to remind you of that fact. If you didn’t come it would break tradition and screw up the numbers and everyone would be pissed. Graduation parties have been a tradition for as long as you and Brittany have been friends, ever since you ‘graduated’ from kindergarten and started elementary school. Back then, you were the smallest kid in the grade and ridiculously shy, so you didn’t have many friends to speak of, until Brittany became a friend, sticking up for you whenever you got picked on (it happened a lot). The number of invites has gone up over the years, to include your friends from middle school – Quinn, when she transferred, and then the Cheerios and the football team when you got to high school. By then, people were afraid of you instead, all three of you had clawed your way to the top of the food chain, you had a more friends, but most of them weren’t really friends at all. They were enemies with another name. Brittany explained it to you, just like that once, and it didn’t click until much later on.

Now, they’re pretty much just New Directions parties. 

Somewhere along the line, things that used to matter, like being liked and noticed and popular, stopped mattering. That gang of misfits you used to cross the street to avoid and blank in the hallway became real friends, became family, even. Brittany’s always been determined to keep that family together, but now they’re scattered across the country, it’s more about proving a point, clinging on something they’ve lost. To try and make believe the clock can be rewound. One less person really wouldn’t make a huge difference, and these days, New Directions parties are 70-30 weird and awkward until someone breaks out the booze so they don’t have to make small talk and the nostalgia starts flowing. Still, you like it that Quinn – and everyone else it seems – holds on to the hope that you and Brittany will get back together. You hope, still, in the dead of the night when you’re lying awake staring at the ceiling of your tiny, tiny apartment in Brooklyn, knowing you should sleep because you have work in the morning. 

You could sense Quinn would up the ante, and boy, did she.

Her second, and even more valid argument was that you’d regret it if you didn’t come because it’s a huge moment in Brittany’s life, and it’s a year overdue. So much has changed since then – you’re not sure what you really are to each other, but she still means _something_ to you – feelings don’t just disappear overnight – but Quinn’s right. You’re still friends, and it’s a big deal for Brittany, and she’s worked so hard. You can still remember the look on her face when she waved her last report card at her webcam, beaming. Then, acceptance letter to Pace came, and you saw that sparkle in her eyes shining brighter than ever – the Brittany you knew, and loved beyond words was back. You’re extraordinarily proud of her and God knows she deserves it. Why wouldn’t you want to share in that success? 

The third, on reflection, was kind of a low blow. She played the famous “You can’t break up The Unholy Trinity” card, guilt tripping you like the gold-star manipulator she can still be when she wants. After over an hour of discussion, Quinn had managed to stir up feelings you’d packed away nicely – or thought you’d packed away nicely – when you cut your losses, dropped out of Louisville, and headed for New York once you found out that Sam and Brittany had gotten together in one very odd phone call with her one Friday night. You don’t blame her, not really, because she was so lost and lonely without you, and he was just sort of _there_ and you’re the one who pushed the self-destruct button on it all anyway – which has to go down as the most stupid thing you’ve _ever_ done – but it didn’t make dealing with it any easier. You needed time, and you needed space because even though it was your own fault, it still hurt to think of Brittany with someone else. You went back and forth between being fine, ridiculously angry, and really creeped out, because well, he was your boyfriend for a while, even if you were only pretending to save face. More than that, you thought he was also your friend, and it’s not a very friendly thing to do. Even Puck deemed the whole sorry mess to be a dick move. 

It’s not that clear cut for you, but maybe he has a point. Bro code and all that. 

You didn’t really talk to either of them for a while. It’s still weird with Sam for reasons you can’t really fathom, even though things between him and Brittany fizzled out months ago and he’s seeing some other girl – Casey, Lacey, or some androgynous shit like that, Sugar told you, but you can’t remember. She’s sat in the aisle across with Kurt, sandwiched between him, Finn and his girlfriend (of the week) Katie, and Rachel and Brody, pretending she’s Switzerland or something and it’s not supremely fucking awkward. With Brittany though, the ties were harder to sever. You couldn’t cut her off completely because it felt like you had one less lung or one less limb or something. You stuck to quick emails and even quicker texts. It was easier. Words hurt less, somehow. You’d fill the gaps getting stuff second hand from the others, mostly Quinn and Sugar, but sometimes Mike, Puck, or Mercedes because that girl is still gossip central. None of them brought her up unless you specifically asked – which you did, despite yourself. 

New York is an easy place to get lost in, and you worked hard at doing precisely that, throwing yourself into making a new life and a new Santana wholesale. It worked for so long, helping you fill the massive Brittany-shaped void in your life. She was gone, but the space she used to occupy was very much still there. The lack of her was painfully obvious, just as it had been in Louisville. The pattern was set early; bouncing around between auditions for shitty commercials and whatever else you could get, and waitressing at Juliette to keep your head above water. The money your mom gave you dried up pretty fast. They were worried, naturally, imploring you to have a back-up plan, so you enrolled at NYU part-time on their pre-law program, just so a small part of you could follow in your mom’s footsteps. As it turns out, you’re kind of good at it. 

For a while, the only time you sang was in the shower, and you liked it that way because whenever you thought of singing, you thought of Glee, that damn choir room and sitting in the back with Brittany and you wanted to die. Even now, the most you do is that or a little drunk karaoke when you take your life in your hands and go and visit Rachel and Kurt in Bushwick, and they drag you to that obnoxious Callbacks place full of loud, annoying and obnoxious NYADA kids. You turn off the radio whenever Taylor Swift, Ke$ha or Britney Spears comes on. It was a safety mechanism once; to shut down feelings before they got the chance to bubble back up to the surface. Now it’s just habit, but you can usually get to the chorus these days. Progress.

With time, things got easier. You gathered a small circle of friends; some from work, some from school – you even stayed in touch with a few of the Cards girls – who’ve become integral to your life somehow. They aren’t on the same level as Quinn, Brittany or the other Glee kids – you don’t let people that close, not anymore. There have been dates, just a few girls off and on, but not as many as the rumour mill says, and no one’s really stuck around. They were all variations on the same blonde blue-eyed theme; ever-paler imitations of Brittany, you realise now. None of them ever able to measure up to her impossible standards. Quinn said you were doing it on purpose, ‘to deny yourself love, and ergo prohibit your emotional growth,’ or something equally pretentious. You used to think she was full of shit and would yell at her for trying to psychoanalyse you, but maybe there’s some truth to it – not that you’d never give her the satisfaction of knowing that. Brittany’s always been unfinished business. The one that got away. The one you could never _quite_ get over. The one you’ve never stopped loving or being in love with. There’s a difference, you’ve realised, and you’ve also realised that it’s always been both where Brittany’s concerned. 

Predictably, it was Quinn in her capacity as your pseudo therapist who got you to start talking to Brittany again. Either she figured you were done licking your wounds or she was tired of hearing you whine about how much you missed Brittany. The break came when you were buried under the weight of finals and a string of double shifts. That, and the fact your weekly Skype sessions were now supplemented with drink – JD and Coke after payday, and crappy cheap ass beer from the Polish dude across the hall towards the end of the month, when your diet is comprised of said beer and ramen. 

It took a while for you to muster the courage, but surprisingly enough, once you actually started to talk, it wasn’t remotely weird. Somehow, you just fell back into it easily – maybe a little _too_ easily. Quinn went nuts of course, grinning like an idiot and looking supremely smug with it, but you thanked her anyway. For all that’s changed between the end of high school for you and the end of high school for Brittany, it’s been a relief to find that some things don’t change at all. You’re still fluent in Brittany speak, even if the language had gotten a little more complex in your absence. She’s changed and grown; different in a good way – something your family and Quinn keep randomly echoing about you too, but you don’t see anyone else except you staring back in the mirror, and she looks very much the same as she always did.

So far, this graduation ceremony is as strange an experience as your own: long periods of near mind-numbing boredom while you clap politely in all the right places for people you don’t really know, contrasting with brief spells of huge excitement, cheering and clapping like crazy when it’s someone you do. Blaine’s speech was pretty good, and you _might_ have gotten a little misty eyed, but Brittany would’ve done better. It still gets to you that no one else got to hear the speech she wrote last year but you. She worked so hard on it, practising it until you could almost say it back to her word for word, but you didn’t care, because it was honest and heartfelt, just like her. Quinn glanced across when Figgins called Sam’s name, seeming surprised that you’d clap. It wasn’t anywhere near as enthusiastic as when Tina walked a few minutes before, or when Sugar did a while later, but no one could accuse you of being immature. You’re more inclined to keep your thoughts to yourself these days, and the last thing you want is for Brittany’s day to be ruined because you were feeling nostalgic and decided to let Snix off the leash.

_“Brittany Susan Pierce.”_

The second you hear her name, even in Figgins’ ridiculous voice, your heart starts to go a little faster, the breath stalls in your lungs, and there’s this sudden rush of energy, and pride and, well, love. This is it; this is Brittany’s moment. It’s not how you imagined it, because you always saw yourself right up on that stage with her instead of in the crowd, but here it is. Almost everyone along the row is going nuts. You and Mike clapping and yelling like your life depends on it while Quinn snaps away with her Nikon. You didn’t intend to, but you find yourself trying to pick her out, eyes trained on that familiar blonde hair. In front of you, Brittany’s dad is filming the whole thing with a video camera, and you can see her mom dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, while her younger brother Cameron and (not so little anymore) sister Chrissy crane to see, cheering loudly. Right as she gets to the stage, you hear Puck’s familiar ear piercing whistle, and Brittany smiles when she spots him, giving a little wave before turning to Figgins to get her diploma.

You get caught up in the moment, and before you realise, you’re up, hands cupped, yelling, “Go Britt-Britt!” at the top of your lungs. 

Then, she’s looking at you, right at you, with tears in her eyes and suddenly you can’t breathe. Quinn’s hand finds yours and grips tight, and you feel Mike on your other side, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. It feels like eternity before she looks away, smiling, bashful as she holds up her diploma in triumph and everyone goes nuts all over again. You’re grinning like an idiot and crying at the same time, barely able to see her on the stage. 

When Brittany mouths ‘I did it,’ at you, all you can do is nod, ridiculously proud. You almost lose it completely.

“You OK?” Quinn whispers, and hugs you to her when you don’t answer. Braving a glance at her, you see she’s crying too.

It’s not remotely appropriate, but you feel like running up there and hugging Brittany like you did when you won your first Cheerios championship. Back then; you thought it couldn’t get better than that. Oh how wrong you were. It’s times like this you’re glad you remembered to wear waterproof mascara; else you’d look like a panda right now. Mike smiles at you, passing tissues, from a seemingly endless supply. Further down, and you can just see Puck doing the exact same thing for Mercedes. Who would’ve thought she’d tame that particular beast? As soon as she started talking about how much she liked being his roomie, talking up his crazy ass screenplay like it was Oscar-winning material, you knew it was pretty much a done deal. They shouldn’t work, but it’s clear that they do. Opposites attract and all that crap. People used to say that about you and Brittany all the time. They never really got what you shared. Sometimes even you didn’t.

The rest of the ceremony goes in a blur. You’re too preoccupied by Brittany to pay any real attention, watching her up on the stage flanked by Tina and Sugar, so you’re always late to join the applause. Brittany keeps glancing at you every so often, like she’s checking you’re still there, and Sugar and Tina are giving you all these knowing looks, whispering things at Brittany that make her smile. Every time you make eye contact, Quinn digs you in the ribs with her elbow, with the same smug ‘I told you so’ face she always has whenever someone – mostly Brittany – would smile at you like that.

The second the class throws their caps up in the air, and Artie does wheelie spins in his chair for good measure; the roof of the auditorium nearly comes off. Even though there are hundreds of people around you, clapping and cheering for all of them, you clap harder and cheer louder; not caring that your throat is starting to hurt and it’ll probably give out totally before the end of the day. 

Everyone’s circulating now, milling around and there are lots of cameras and phones going off. Quinn is off talking to Rachel and Kurt, because she deemed it important you and Brittany have ‘space.’ Her matchmaking was always transparent, but it’s painfully obvious when it comes to you and Brittany, about as unsubtle as the way she dragged Mike off, and his hand lingered on the small of her back as they walked away, disappearing into the clusters of students and families. You’ll definitely quiz her about that later on, because _that’s_ new. All you remember is some vague talk about going to visit her sister Frannie and her super hot fiancé in Chicago while back, nothing about Boy Chang.

Now you wish you’d followed them, because you’re suddenly very aware of how alone you are. Every so often, you recognise faces, so you wave, just to be polite. Otherwise, you feel a little like a spare part, worrying the handles of the gift bag you’ve been carrying around all day for something to occupy your hands and stave off your cravings for a cigarette. You’re trying to give up. It _had_ been going well, but since you stepped back into this damn school, it’s all gone down the tubes, and you’re itching to make a break for the bleachers, half expecting to find Jessica Drew there with her Lucky Strikes for company. 

Truth be told, now it’s all over, the comedown is heavier than you expected. The euphoria wore off quickly, and now you’re just wondering if you should change your plans – whatever they are, because you’re kind of winging it right now – and go back to New York on the next flight, but Quinn would kill you, twice over. It was a nice idea, staying for the summer when you talked about it with her, but now you’re not sure if you can bear to hang around. This isn’t really home anymore, and you don’t want to intrude on all the family stuff that’ll happen once Brittany gets down from the stage. It looks like just about the entire faculty is congratulating her first. She lingers longest with Mr Schue and Miss Pillsbury – you still can’t call her Mrs Schuester, even though she keeps sweetly correcting you. It doesn’t feel right – and even Coach Sylvester gives her a hug. 

“Santana,” a voice says, soft, calm and familiar. You turn to find Mrs Pierce next to you, smiling.

“Hi, Mrs Pierce,” you say, reflex, because calling her Belinda now is even odder now than it was when you and Brittany were dating. 

She makes the same kind face she always did when you call her that, but today it looks more wistful, like she missed hearing you make the mistake. She looks classy and effortless like always in killer keels and a matching navy embroidered dress that Kurt will probably talk about incessantly once he sets eyes on it.

“Come and join us for the pictures?” she asks, and you don’t know where to put yourself. 

Behind her, Chrissy is mouthing ‘come on’ and motioning for you to join them. You throw her an apologetic look, because besides Brittany, you miss hanging out with her the most. She’s a pretty cool kid, even if she used to annoy the shit out of you sometimes when you babysat. Truth be told, you kind of miss her being a demanding brat and cockblocking you and Brittany at every turn. She looks really grown-up, suddenly, standing in front of you in a pretty little striped dress with her hair curled instead of poker straight, and you don’t know when the hell that happened.

“Please Santana!” Chrissy whines, jumping up and down, unable to contain herself any longer. It’s kind of a relief to see that she’s still the same girl underneath. 

Even Cameron is looking at you hopefully, and that never happens, because he’s awkward, and totally in that surly teenage emo phase. He’s had a gigantic crush on you for years, and he’s never _quite_ gotten over the fact you chose Brittany instead – not that he’d admit it. He used to get bullied pretty bad at school – because of her, because of Brittany, because of you _and_ Brittany, even though he missed the worst of the Finn and Reggie bullshit – until you stepped in and showed them who was boss. You put the fear of God into them, but you hope he’s OK now you’re not there to back it up. Since then, you’ve reached a sort of grudging accord, and sometimes, he can be really sweet.

“Christina, stop harassing the poor girl!” Mr Pierce says, with a warning glare. “Nice to see you, Santana.”

“You too, Mr P – Eddie,” you reply, correcting yourself at the last second. “Nice suit. Sharp.” It’s different to the work ones you’ve seen him in so many times at the showroom. The brightly coloured tie has Brittany all over it – a flash of red popping out against the black of everything else. McKinley colours.

“Thanks” he smiles, but it’s kind of sad, and you nod and smile. It probably looks sad too. 

Ever since you’ve known him, he’s always had this kind, knowing look, like he has the answer to every problem you’ll ever face right there in his back pocket, and he’s just waiting for you to figure it all out. Just like Brittany, he’s a good listener, and you’ve had some pretty big heart to hearts with him standing in the gleaming showroom he owns, busying yourself with the pretence of looking at expensive cars you always knew you’d get if you own father felt guilty enough. It was easier to talk when you weren’t being judged. He’s where Brittany gets her wisdom from, you think. You could do with some of his answers right now.

“I’m not!” Chrissy huffs, sticking out her bottom lip in a very Brittany like pout. “I just think she should be in the picture is all.” Then, she turns her attention to you fully, fixing you with a curious stare, “Why are you being so weird?”

“Jesus Chrissy, shut up!” Cameron snaps, elbowing her in the side. “She doesn’t want to be in the stupid picture!” 

“Cam, this is Britt’s day. Remember?” Eddie hisses, and Cam quiets, looking sheepish. “You know better.”

“Actually,” you begin, looking pointedly in Chrissy’s direction, smiling a little. “It’s not stupid at all. If Brittany wants me to be, I will.”

When you glance over at Belinda, she mouths a ‘thank you,’ and looks like she might cry. You think you might too. You didn’t realise it until right this second, but you’ve missed her too: the chats in the kitchen while you waited for Brittany to be ready; the shoulder to cry on when everything got too much and hurt even more to speak about; to small stuff; the honest to goodness love you felt any time you stepped inside their house, knowing the fact you always had a place there, no matter the time of day. 

“See!” Chrissy crows, throwing Cam her best death glare. “Told you! Anyway, Brittany totally wants you in the picture. All she’s talked about forever is,” she pauses for effect, changing her voice, imitating Brittany, “‘When Santana gets back from New York’ she totally loves you still and wants your lady babies!”

Even though you pretty much want the floor to swallow you whole or for Stoner Brett to trip the fire alarm again, you can’t help but laugh as you hear Belinda and Eddie gasp, shocked (but kind of not, because Chrissy has even less of a filter than Brittany does), overlapping each other with hurried “Christina Pierce’s” and “sorries” practically glowing with embarrassment. 

“Britt’s gonna kill you, man,” Cam smirks. “So dead.”

“Whatever. It’s not secret!” Chrissy shrugs. “She knows,” she continues, pointing in your direction, before adding, “I don’t even know why you broke up. It’s dumb. People in love don’t break up.”

The kid’s got you there. When did she turn into such a perceptive little smartass? OK, so she’s _always_ been a perceptive little smartass (and maybe all those life lessons during babysitting rubbed off a little), but she’s just gotten better at it. Now it’s a lot more like truth and a lot less like strange ramblings of a little kid hopped up on too much sugar. 

“It’s complicated, Chris,” you offer, quickly, because it’s the only reasoning you’ve worked out, shoddy as it is. 

Chrissy’s “that’s exactly what Brittany says” goes right over your head, because, suddenly, you’re accosted by a very excited Brittany and Sugar, rushing at you so fast you almost fall over, shrieking and giggling as they hug you tight. When they do actually get to making noises that sound like words, you can’t hear a damn thing because they’re both talking at once and really, really quickly so you only get about twenty percent of it. In the end though, only five words from Brittany –said softly, right in your ear as she squeezes you – are the only ones that matter.

“I’m really glad you came.”

When she pulls away, and smiles at you, while Belinda and everyone else congratulate and hug her, it lights up her entire face; as brilliant and beautiful as the day you met as children during your first recess. It’s like you never left. Before you can really get a look at her or talk properly, Belinda’s corralling everyone for the pictures, directing you to bunch up so everyone that needs to be in the frame is there.

“I’ll take pictures some if you’d like, Belinda?” Quinn suggests, appearing to your left with Mike at her side.

“Oh that’d be great, sweetheart. Thank you.”

Mike catches you looking and his hand darts away from where it’s been resting on Quinn’s hip, glancing away quickly. Everything about them seems so intimate and practically screams hook-up, but it’s obvious they’re trying to keep it quiet, even if they are horrendously bad at it. Quinn should’ve come to you for tips. If there’s one thing you can do well, it’s keep secrets. Dialling down your feelings is pretty much second nature, but you’re finding it hard. Mostly because you’re not really sure what you feel.

When she passes, headed toward Belinda, Quinn turns back, looking at you with the same idiotic little grin on her face as the day she found out about you and Brittany officially. She’s the least subtle person in the universe. Though you’re not sure if she and Chrissy have actually swapped bodies, because she’s behaving closer to thirteen than nineteen right now, but you kind of love her for it anyway.

You hang back a little, watching as Quinn snaps away while Brittany poses with her parents, and then her brother and sister in turn. In between each photo, she nervously fiddles with her robe, and you motion for her to flip the tassel on her cap to the other side, just to make it official. She gives a little nod of thanks, a faint blush colouring her cheeks; looking as sweet and shy as she did on the stage. There are glimpses of your Britt-Britt, still there underneath her settled, confident Brittany exterior. She’s grown up for sure, but she’s grown into herself too, like you always knew she would. 

The first few pictures are more formal, mantelpiece perfect. You can already see it, pride of place in their lounge, and the inevitable copies that follow, in Brittany’s grandparents house in Port Clinton, where they go every summer on vacation. The last couple of shots are just Brittany, Cam and Chrissy goofing off and pulling ridiculous faces, but it’s sweet; one of those rare moments when you wish you weren’t an only child (devil incarnate little stepbrothers who you barely see, but hate you anyway really don’t count). Cam manages not to fight against the suit and tie he’s obviously been forced into wearing, and even smiles once or twice, and the last time you saw that was well before he started high school. 

“You look fricken hot,” Sugar hisses, conspiratorial. “It’ll pay off later.”

Sometimes, you’re not quite sure what planet they beamed Sugar Motta in from, but she’s pretty awesome, and she’s been a great friend to Brittany ever since you left for college. Scratch that, she’s a good friend to all of you, and has a good heart, you think, just like Brittany. OK, so she’s a little hyper and says random stuff because of (and not because of) her Asperger’s, but she’s fun to be around, and her little thing with John the band geek is so cute you practically get toothache just from looking at their Facebook feeds. 

“Thanks … I think,” you chuckle. “It cost enough.”

“Money totally well spent. Tons of bang for your buck!” she winks.

“I gotta agree, Lopez. Looking good,” Mike pipes up, grinning as he glances her up and down.

“Cool it, Boy Chang,” you reply, but there’s no real threat in it. “Not looking so bad yourself.”

It has to be said, Mike Chang can work a suit. With Quinn’s whole sexy 1950s housewife floral deal, they totally look like they could be in _Mad Men_ or something.

“Santana Lopez was that a compliment?” Mike replies, wryly, straightening his tie and puffing out his chest ridiculously, and you laugh at it.

“Don’t get used to it,” you shoot back, quickly, and he shakes his head. 

You’re starting to loosen up a little, and things don’t feel nearly as difficult.

“Santana, Sugar,” Belinda calls, waving you over. “Come on. I want to get a picture of all you girls together. Indulge me?”

Chrissy makes a face, letting out a long exaggerated sigh before flopping down into one of the seats next to Cam, busily texting on his phone, bored with it all, and Brittany looks like she already has jaw ache from smiling so much. Before you can even think of saying anything, Sugar practically throws the gift bag you’ve been carrying around all day at Mike, grabs you by the hand and then drags you off toward Brittany and Quinn. She seems even more determined to get you near Brittany than Quinn is, and that’s saying something.

“Unholy Trinity first, right Mrs P?” Sugar asks, shoving you between Quinn and Brittany, and Belinda looks puzzled until it clicks.

“Absolutely.”

“Can’t break with tradition, right?” Quinn says passing her camera to Eddie and puts an arm around your shoulders, eyeing you and Brittany both.

“No way,” Brittany nods, firm. “We started together.”

“We’ll end together,” you and Quinn finish the sentence, overlapping each other.

Brittany looks over at you with a soft smile. “Just the way it should be.”

You ignore the way it and the meaning of what you just said makes your stomach flutter. Hope. You’ve forgotten what that feels like. 

“These came out great, Quinn,” Eddie says, beaming with pride. “Who’s for another round boys and girls?” 

You try to relax, and not make a big deal of this. It’s just a picture. A memento. Except, you stood here twelve months ago, and in pretty much the same position, flanking Quinn, ready to support her if she got tired or felt unsteady. You’re the unsteady one now. Brittany presses more closely into your side, and you half expect her to kiss you cheek, chaste and respectful because of who’s watching. There’s no kiss this time, but Brittany does move closer.

Quinn’s always telling you that you can’t fight history, and maybe she’s right. Being with around Brittany isn’t half as weird as you thought. You’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time; forever wondering if you could hold it together long enough to see it through. You have and you are, so now; you just want to enjoy it for what it is: a photograph with two of the people you care about most in this world taken on a day you thought would never come. Not because you didn’t have faith, but because you and Brittany are constantly thwarted by bad luck. For a girl who’s so pure of heart, so genuinely good, a lot of bad things have happened to her. While everyone else settles, and Belinda plays with the settings on her camera, you fix your nicest smile – the one reserved for prom pictures and yearbook photos, warm and modest, your mom says – and try not to panic too much or read into it when Brittany’s hand slides naturally into the small of your back, resting comfortably. It’s habit. That’s all. 

You get swept up when up everyone else descends, forgetting how you’re supposed to behave. Switch flipped to default, you relax into Brittany’s side when she curls into yours – it feels as right as it ever did. First it’s Puck and Mercedes, then Tina, Artie and Blaine, and finally, Rachel, Kurt, Sam, and Finn; wanting to offer their congratulations, say hellos, make small talk and hug each other because everyone’s feeding off the good mood, and can at least pretend not to hate each other for two seconds. Belinda and Eddie stand with the other parents who have come to join in, and it turns into a New Directions class photo session. So you’re bunching up in different groups; alternating between smiling and pulling ridiculous faces. With each new round of photos, you go back to the same position, right between Quinn and Brittany. Standing with her now, it just feels like something in you, or something around you has snapped back into place; like every decision you’ve made (or not made) has lead you back to this moment. Has led you back to her. 

Every time the camera flash goes off, New York matters less and less, until it’s the farthest thing from your mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“This is one of your all or nothing moments. You’ve had a lot of those with Brittany.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For story notes see Chapter One.

For the last for forty-four, no, forty- _five_ minutes, you’ve been sitting in your car, eyes trained on the Pierces front door, wondering when you’re going to get busted. You’ve slumped down every time you heard a car engine cut out or saw someone you knew – either from school or any of Brittany’s extended family. An hour ago, you were ready for this, kind of, standing in front of the mirror scrutinising yourself, as you added the last dab of perfume to your neck. Though it took you forever to decide what to wear – even after you had a mini debate with Quinn over the phone. This is meant to be a more relaxed affair, so you toned things down, but not to the point that it looks like you don’t care. Make-up light, hair re-curled and changed into a different dress – yellow with black accessories, even though you have enough apprehension for a complete black outfit – you think you got it right for once. All that screwing around with outfits has made you late, and you can hear the strains of music and chatter drifting from the backyard along with the barbeque smoke.

The longer you sit here, the harder it is to get out and go up to the house and the easier it feels to back out the driveway and go home. Whatever that means.

In theory, there’s nothing wrong with being here, because you’ve practically lived with Brittany during the summer, and some of the best parties you’ve ever been are ones she’s thrown. You’re mature enough, you hope, that you could make it work for Brittany’s sake. If nothing else, you could just drop in and actually give Brittany the damn gift you’ve been carrying around all this time. Obligations of a mature young adult fulfilled. Quinn can tell you that you’re in the midst of personal growth and everyone can feel pleased with themselves. Perfect.

Except, Brittany deserves more than that. She deserves you staying. You want to, you really do, because right now; you want the kind of chaos these nights always turn into: chatter, dancing, Puck trying to get drink in underneath Eddie’s impeccable radar, filling yourself on that delicious barbeque food Brittany’s mom makes, getting roped into some ridiculous karaoke contest, just like ever other year. In practice, it’s not like every other year. You don’t walk to talk because talk means questions and those questions are almost always about Brittany. You’re sick to your stomach with nerves so you don’t want to touch a thing, and if Puck pulled out his famous flask, you’d probably down the whole thing. The worst thing is you’re not sure you should be here at all. Brittany probably just invited you out of kindness or loyalty. You feel like an outsider, an intruder, and you don’t know why.

In the hours since you saw Brittany last, your mood’s plummeted again, and doubts are creeping back into your head. Doubts like being back here is ridiculous and you can’t just expect to pick up where you left off with Brittany and pretend like the last year didn’t happen. Second chances are for Lifetime movies. Not real life. It’s pathetic really, that you’re feeling like this, but you can’t seem to shake it. If the fourteen-year-old you were in the passenger seat she’d probably laugh in your face, and tell you that you’re the lamest of Lima Losers.

You glance over at the passenger seat, annoyed at yourself, because that damn gift bag is still there, like the _fucking_ Telltale Heart. A symbol of how bad you still suck at dealing with your feelings.

There were plenty of opportunities to pull Brittany to one side and give the gift to her, but none of them felt like the right time. She’s gotten a ton of gifts today; yours would just be another, no big deal. Except, it’s a huge deal. The pink gift bag sitting on your passenger seat has been everywhere with you for the last year. When you didn’t actually get to see Brittany graduate, giving her the gift felt like a really bad idea, so, it’s just stayed with you, zigzagging between Louisville, Lima, and New York, protected in bubble wrap and packed in its own box like some priceless heirloom. Now you just want to throw it out the window or set it on fire rather than give it to her. It’s from another time; a time when you could express how hopelessly in love with Brittany you were. You feel the same, perhaps you feel it even more, but now you’re not allowed to express it or it feels like you’re not, so you’re stuck in this limbo, utterly confused.

There’s a knock on the window and you jump out of your skin, clutching at your chest as you turn to see Quinn standing there looking at you, puzzled.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You just shrug your shoulders, and look away before you burst into tears. In lieu of a better answer, you turn the ignition to unlock the doors. Quinn moves around to the passenger side quickly, as if she’s scared you’ll change your mind and lock her out just to be stubborn. You’ve done it before, when she tried to interrogate you about Brittany, really early on back in high school, and you just refused to tell her anything. Now it’s difficult to stop telling her, and you don’t know when that became possible.

“Oh God, is this why you’re hiding out here?” she asks, gesturing to the gift bag before she puts it on the dashboard and hops into the seat without even asking, delicately smoothing her dress as she sits – pretty and perfectly Quinn.

“I’m not hiding,” you reply, defensive, glaring at her.

“Yes you are. You were fine at the ceremony, you and Britt looked fine … _more_ than fine. What’s the issue?”

It’s obvious what the issue is. Quinn _knows_ , but she’s going to make you say it anyway. It’s all part of the Fabray therapy process, like AA or Twelve Step. She’s your life sponsor. Quinn’s been here before, too many times in this last year. Hopefully, it’ll be like every other time, when she’s known exactly what to say. You know you’re being stupid, and that Quinn will only say that before telling you to stop doing it and just go inside, because it’s _Brittany_ and not the damn firing squad, but you need to hear her say it.

“I just feel stupid, Q. Like, what’s wrong with me that I can’t go in there and give her a gift I’ve been carrying around for an entire fucking year? She invited me.”

She sighs. “Nothing’s wrong. OK, so maybe you’re doing your favourite thing of beating yourself up for no reason, but there’s nothing wrong. You care about Brittany, you don’t know where you stand with her, and you want her back. Nervousness is natural.”

“How do you know I want her back?” you snap, turning so fast to look at her you practically get whiplash.

“Really Santana? Are you being serious? Do you want me to dignify that with a response?”

She laughs at you. Quinn actually laughs. You don’t know how you restrain yourself from slapping her, but you do. You’ve half a mind to get out of the car just to get away from her. Instead, you curl into the door, wondering if you can fit yourself into the glove compartment and disappear off the face of the planet.

To Quinn’s credit, she gathers herself pretty quickly.

“Santana,” she takes your hand, holding your gaze, “I’ve never seen anyone more in love than you are with Brittany. You've been carrying that thing around for a year. Just give it to her.”

“Look” you start, eyes narrowing and arms folding across yourself, on the defensive, “if you’re going to spew out some bullshit about how that gift symbolises how I can’t move on and I’m fixated then you can get the fuck out of this car. I don’t need it.”

“I wasn’t,” she replies, sounding hurt. “It symbolises something, but not that.”

You sigh, throwing your head back against the seat, everything you’re not saying hanging between you both. “It’s been a year Quinn, I can’t waltz up like I own her. I broke up with her. Remember?”

“Oh my God!” she exclaims. “Will you stop? You can’t keep torturing yourself.”

“It’s not that –”

She holds up a hand, cutting you off. “Are you an idiot for doing it? Absolutely. Did you mean to hurt her? No. You did it to protect what you have, and look, it worked didn’t it?”

“Oh yeah, that whole bit when she hooked up with Trouty was fucking stellar! Exactly what I wanted to happen,” you reply, bitterly.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” she snaps, frustrated. “For a smart girl, Santana, you say some really stupid shit.”

“And I do some really stupid shit,” you admit, looking down at your lap. “If I could take it back, Q.”

“I know,” she says, earnest, touching your shoulder. “You made a mistake. _One_ mistake. OK so it was a pretty big one, but that doesn’t mean you have spend your whole life paying for it. Take a risk. Tell her how you’ve been feeling. She gets you better than anyone, but she’s not psychic.”

“I’m afraid,” you say, before you realise.

“Hiding in here isn’t going to help though. You’re braver than you think you are.”

“No,” you shake your head. “Not when it comes to Brittany. She fucking terrifies me, Q.” Tears sting in your eyes, and you swat away the few that escape.

“Why? It’s _Brittany_ ,” she declares, incredulous.

You think about giving her a long answer, equal parts truth and deflection, but you realise there isn’t any point. She’s been there when you’ve been at your lowest and ugliest, sobbing down at her down the line or in front of a laptop screen. To hold back now wouldn’t make any sense at all.

“Because she’s the only person I’ve ever loved, and she knows it.”

“So remind her. You did it once, you can do it again. She’s not right without you, and you and you’re not right without her. Please don’t deny yourself the chance of happiness, Santana. I did that for so long until … Mike.”

At this, you sit up, interest piqued, relieved you can switch focus for a moment. In the past, Quinn’s always gloated about her ridiculously detailed life plans or the boy she’s seeing, but it feels different this time. She’s glowing with embarrassment, looking up shyly through her lashes, biting on her lip like she’s just admitted some huge secret.

“When were you gonna tell me about that, huh?” you jab her in the side, playful. “How come I have to spill my guts over Skype and you conveniently forget to share that you’ve snagged Mr Killer Abs? Unfair.”

Now it’s Quinn’s turn to be defensive, in more apologetic way, of course. “I didn’t plan it, OK?”

“Sure,” you scoff, watching her blush even more.

“I don’t know, it just kind of happened. When I stayed with Frannie and Chase in Chicago we went to a Joffrey recital. He was in it.”

You can practically hear the swooning in her voice. It’s kind of adorable, so you just let her carry on talking. You wonder if you sound – or you used to sound – like that when you talk about Brittany.

“Anyway, we just ended up hanging out when she was at work. I showed him around places, he showed me places. We went to matinees, and poked around bookstores. He took me to dinner on the last night and – ”

“The stars aligned? The Earth moved?” you laugh, not able to resist.

“Fuck you!” she cries, shoving you in the chest. “I just like being with him … it’s different. It’s nice. I feel like it could be something special,” she tails off, suddenly looking sad. “Now I get how much the distance sucked for you and Britt though.”

“Yeah. It certainly didn’t help.” you reply, almost wistful. “I’m happy for you though, Q. Really. God knows one of us deserves to be. He’s a cool guy. I know he’s not gonna screw you around,” you brighten, and she smiles. “But,” you pause for emphasis, “If he _dares_ to try, Auntie Snix will rearrange his pretty boy face!”

“Good to know,” she giggles, pulling you into a quick hug. “Promise me something?”

“What’s that?”

“That you’ll give it one last shot? I just want to see both my best friends happy again.”

“That’s all I can do, I guess,” you say, and hug her back, just because. “Go big or go home!” you joke, but it falls a little flat.

She turns serious. “Don’t leave here not knowing where you stand. It’s not healthy to carry on as you are,” from the way she’s talking, you can tell what she’s saying has been on her mind for a long time. “You only get so many chances, Santana. I have no doubt that Brittany will love you all her life, but people will only wait so long. Don’t waste it. Don’t lose her again. You belong together. I mean that.”

The gravity of what you’re about to do finally sinks in. This is one of your all or nothing moments. You’ve had a lot of those with Brittany.

“Yeah, I don’t think I can survive that twice,” you confess quietly. “Even if you will be there to pick up the pieces again.”

“Always. S. Always.”

She squeezes you tight, kind of like Brittany does, as if she’s trying to transfer some strength. You close your eyes, and let yourself hope; imagining the look on Brittany’s face when she sees you, when she sees her gift, and when you finally talk and clear the air. By the end of today, you’ll know. Once and for all, what you and Brittany are to each other, and if you can ever be as close as you once were.

You’ve never been this nervous when you’ve stood on this porch before, waiting for the door to be answered – a respectful gap between each ring of the doorbell – not even when you were all dressed up to take Brittany to senior prom. The corsage box in your hands was the only thing keeping them occupied, giving you something to hold on to and distract yourself from the fact you were shaking. You’re shaking now, needlessly, but you can’t stop it, and more you focus on it, the worse it gets; gripping tight to the handle of the gift bag instead of a corsage. Quinn offered to smooth over your entrance to the party, suggesting you go together, but it didn’t feel right to walk back there like you always have. You don’t want to take anything for granted.

When the door rattles, you take a steadying breath, smoothing your hair and checking your reflection in the glass as it opens, propping your sunglasses on your head.

“Santana, you’re here! Since when you do yon have to ring the doorbell?” Belinda greets you warmly, beckoning you inside. “We wondered if you were going to make it.”

“Sorry, I got caught up,” you reply, hurriedly. Out of habit, you reach for the door to close it when she doesn’t. “I was visiting my abuela and lost track of time.”

It’s not a lie, just a slight stretch of the truth. You did go and visit her, but it wasn’t in her tiny little house that you’ve gone to ever since you were small, spending the afternoon sitting on her lap, listening to her stories. This time, it was a retirement home, and she still thought you were that little girl, and she told you just the same story. It unsettled you, but in a way, it was a relief, because she’d forgotten how bitter and estranged you’d both become. She didn’t remember that conversation at the kitchen table, and Brittany was just that ‘sweet little girl’ you played Barbies with. Maybe it’s better that way. Even so, you couldn’t bear to stay more than twenty minutes; it was just too heartbreaking to look at the shell of a woman in front of you and recognise her as the woman you once adored so much.

“Don’t worry, you’re still in time for the food, if Puck, and Cam and his friends haven’t eaten it all that is!” she says as she closes the door behind you. “Oh, and Eddie’s attempts at a speech, but that might be a good thing. You know how he rambles!”

You laugh along with her as you follow her into the kitchen, tacking obediently behind, stepping carefully over Lord Tubbington, wandering towards the French doors and out into the yard. He gets some attention immediately from one of Brittany’s cousins, hoisted up for cuddles. To your surprise, Chrissy doesn’t immediately come flying in to talk to you, and that’s kind of sad, because she’s always been like an overexcited puppy when it comes to that. She always used to camp out on the window seat in their lounge room and keep watch, so she got to answer the door first. Times change, and you’re losing out to her friends and a huge trampoline. Stiff competition. If you somehow manage to get drunk enough, you’ll probably be on that later with Quinn and Brittany, screaming like banshees when you do flips just like those girls are right now.

A hell of a lot of people are here, so Brittany probably hasn’t had time to notice you aren’t amongst them yet. How she’s pulled this off, you’ll never know, but you’re not surprised. What seems like a ton of Brittany’s relatives, most of whom you’ve met before: Chrissy and Cam’s friends; along with everyone who was at the ceremony and _just_ about every member of New Directions –including the newer kids – have somehow managed to fit in the Pierces backyard. You’re still not entirely sold on that Kitty chick, but the others are pretty cool from what you’ve heard via Sugar, Tina, and Brittany. They’re pretty decent judges of character. Brittany’s been raving about Marley and Unique ever since you got back in touch, and you can already see why. Marley’s cute-as-pie and Unique is just fierce as all hell. It’s Brittany all over, she likes extremes.

Sugar lights up the second she spots you, waving manically and you wave back, nodding and mouthing a ‘soon’ when she motions for you to come outside. Whoever’s DJ at this thing – you vaguely think it might be Sugar’s boyfriend, that little drummer geek from Jazz Ensemble, John – they’ve seriously got the selection right; Rihanna segues into a dance remix of some old school Pink and you’re about two seconds from joining her. You’re tempted, because the food smells amazing. It’s the first time you’ve felt hungry all day, and you’re sure that you’ll be talked into extra helpings anyway, so it won’t be a problem for long. Eddie waves at you from the grill, and you do the same back, just to be polite.

Even after Quinn’s pep talk, you’re not quite ready just to walk out there and immerse yourself in the full party experience. You love it usually, just going with the flow of everything; talking to whoever, dancing around with whoever; finding your way to Brittany eventually, because she likes to circulate and play hostess, and you always like to watch her do it. Well, you used to. It feels weird to be here, like you haven’t been for ten years and not one. As strange as the very first time, when you were only just five and Brittany dragged you inside to get a Band-Aid for your knee after you scraped it playing tag. You half expect Belinda to haul you up on to the counter and play nurse – still doing her job even on her day off – dabbing at your knee with rubbing alcohol and telling you what a brave girl you are while you sob fat, fat tears and Brittany holds your hand tight, just like she did that one summer afternoon. That doesn’t happen, of course. You’re not five anymore, but the hurt you’ve felt this past year is pretty much the same; only there’s no wound and no visible scars to show for it.

Belinda goes back to what she was doing before you disturbed her, putting chips and dip into little bowls, and chopping up vegetables so the ones she has left are for crudité instead, and you feel pleased with yourself for noticing. All your waitressing is giving you weird pockets of knowledge about food and drink to the point that you’re Rachel’s go-to whenever she and Kurt throw one of their ridiculous (but secretly fun) Kiki’s. Pretty much the only people who will eat these are you, Brittany, and Rachel – she’s into all that raw food thing lately, and hanging out with Brittany in this kitchen at various gatherings over the years kind of got you hooked on them – but Belinda doesn’t seem to mind.

“You need any help with that?” you ask, setting the gift down on the counter, tempted to make some comment just to stop Belinda from asking about it.

Whenever she questions you, you always feel compelled to tell the truth. Right now, that’s a dangerous thing.

“Oh sweetie, no, you’re a guest!” she replies, shaking her head. She glances at the bag, but doesn’t comment. “Go and see Brittany. Have some fun. She’s dying to see you.”

Your heart leaps to your throat.

“It’s no trouble, honestly,” you say, panicked, rounding the counter, stacking the vegetable batons on serving platters and spooning out more dip before she can even thinking of arguing.

On the face of it, you look the same excessively polite girl she’s always known you to be, but you have an agenda. It’s a coping mechanism. You’re giving yourself more breathing room, and you hope it’s enough for the whispers of your arrival to reach Brittany’s ears and make her come inside. That way, the first move is hers, and it makes you feel less presumptuous, even if it results in you being more calculating.

“Can you pass on these manners to my children?!” Belinda chuckles to herself.

“Take the waitress out of New York …” you shrug, smiling at little as you pick up the plates, balancing them on your forearm with practised ease.

“How is New York?” she asks, as warm and attentive to you as she’s ever been.

You take longer than you should to answer. Your immediate thought is ‘lonely’ but she doesn’t want to hear that, not when she’s a couple of months away from packing Brittany off there. If you’re unhappy in the place you’ve always pinned your hopes on being completely happy in, where else is there that you can go?

“Busy,” you reply at last, hearing the sad edge of that loneliness in your voice. “Really busy.”

“I figured,” she nods, in a way that sounds like everything and nothing at once. “Everyone wants something from you and you’re trying to find your own way at the same time. It’s difficult.”

“Tell me about it,” you groan, as you set the plates back down again, busying yourself with arranging more of them.

New York is supposed to be your dream; the place you’re meant to be to find yourself and where you fit in the world. After the disaster at Louisville, where you just felt like you were in someone else’s body, living someone else’s life, you were determined to do what you wanted. Some days, it’s true, New York was the right decision; you feel settled and steady and useful, like you’re making a real life for yourself. Other days, it feels like a huge mistake, and you feel incredibly lost and lonely and useless, just playing at what your life should be from what you see on TV or read in those hideous self-help books Rachel’s so fond of reading and taking as gospel truth that leave you wondering if you’re having your quarterlife crisis four years early.

“I remember when I was doing my nursing training in California,” she begins, tentatively. “It was tough trying to juggle everything. Between work and school, Eddie barely had time for me and I had even less time for him. It was tough.”

“Yeah,” you laugh to yourself. “I don’t really have that problem right now.”

“Oh!” she flinches, realising her mistake. “I didn’t mean … sorry honey,” she continues, apologetic, placing a hand on your shoulder and squeezing to comfort you.

“It’s OK. Don’t worry about it. I know what you meant.”

“What I meant to say is, when you’re in a new city, with new people and there are all these demands on you, it can be overwhelming.”

You can tell that she’s working up to something. She always leaves longer gaps between talking when she’s trying to get something out of you. That sounds mean, like she’s picking at you to find fault, but that’s not true. She’s doing it to give you time to open up. For what feels like a long time, she doesn’t say anything at all, and all you can hear is the chatter, laughter and music from the party, and the clean thunk-thunk-thunk of Belinda’s knife cutting through the vegetables and connecting with the board underneath.

“You’re a smart girl, Santana, and a hard worker, so I know you’ll get there. It’s just a matter of time. Eventually, you learn how things should balance out.”

“I wish I had your faith,” you admit, glancing over at her briefly. “I had all these plans in my head and none of them have really worked out. The real world isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

The main reason that they didn’t is because Brittany was at the centre of your golden imagined future, so they imploded the second you arrived alone.

“What is it with you girls these days?” she sighs, wistful. “You and Quinn and Brittany are determined to wish your lives away. All I’ve heard from her is ‘things will be better when I get to New York, mom.’ She’s pinning all her hopes on Pace. I just hope it doesn’t disappoint her now she’s worked so hard to get it.”

At the mention of Brittany, you stop what you’re doing, turn around and lean back against the counter.

“She won’t be. It lives up to the hype, but …” you pause, uncertain whether to continue, but do anyway. “New York’s a hard place to live, especially if you’re not a hard person.”

Belinda’s knife goes down on the board, and she turns to you fully.

“And my Britt isn’t. I know,” she replies, quietly.

“She is a strong person though. The strongest I know. She’ll be just fine.”

Yes, Brittany is loyal and kind to a fault, but she’s not some delicate little flower. She’ll have a ton of stuff to adapt to, and it’ll be hard for her, but she’ll do it.

“I just worry about her. I worry about all of you out there. I know it’s silly, but I do. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t?”

You can’t really argue with that. It feels like these words are things she’s wanted to say for a long time, but she’s been afraid to. She’s usually so forthright and open, knowing she could be other than that is strange.

“I wouldn’t for one second hold her back or dissuade her from going, because I know how much she hates being left behind. I just worry that she’ll get lost. That she’ll lose herself. That she won’t be Brittany anymore,” she pauses, blinking back tears, and you don’t know what to do or say, so you just let her carry on talking.

“Months from now, she’ll come back, and she’ll be this different girl, grown up, just like you and Quinn and all the other kids who’ve come back today, and I won’t know her at all.”

She looks so concerned that you can feel the sadness welling up in you, blooming in your chest. Her words are little echoes of the ones you’ve heard from your own mom down the line whenever she calls you on Fridays to check how you’re doing.

You move closer despite yourself, touching her forearm. “She’ll always be your Britt,” you declare, softly, and Belinda’s face starts to blur before your eyes, because that sadness has turned into unexpected tears.

“I know. I told you I was being silly!” she sniffs, trying to smile. “What is it they call it, empty nest syndrome?”

“You should talk to my mom!” you say, and it makes her smile. It’s the kind that reaches her eyes. It reminds you so of Brittany that it hurts. “She pretends not to miss me, but I know she does.”

Belinda looks nervous, avoiding your gaze. “Santana, could I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Please don’t feel pressured to say yes, but would you mind looking out for Brittany in New York? Nothing big, just check in on her from time to time. She’ll be living in dorms, but …” she stalls, hesitant to continue. “You’re so much more … you have street smarts. You’re a independent in a way she's not yet.”

This time, you don’t even need to think before you reply. “Of course … always,” you catch yourself before you say anything too incriminating. “I mean, I was thinking of it anyway, and we’ll practically see each other every day as it is,” then you stop because you’re rambling and Belinda’s smiling at you in the same way she did when you asked if you could take Brittany to prom.

She pulls you into a hug and it takes you by surprise, so you resist it for a few seconds until it registers. You feel like just sinking into it and crying, because you need to let out all this emotion somehow. When you get like this, you either sob your heart out and listen to Amy Winehouse or punch the shit out of the nearest wall; there’s no middle. If you ever get to speak to Brittany, you’ll be a gibbering mess.

“Thank you,” she says, softly, squeezing you tighter than she ever has. You feel strangely soothed by it. “I hope you find what makes you happy … you deserve to be,” she whispers, kissing you atop the head lightly.

“I’ll try,” you say, hopeful, when she steps back.

It looks like she wants to say something else, and you know that something will be about you and Brittany, but then Cam bursts in through the French doors, not caring what he might be interrupting, with a flurry of “can I” and “I want,” and the moment’s gone. It takes him a full minute to realise you’re there.

“Cameron, where are your manners? Say hello,” Belinda prompts, and you stifle a laugh.

“Hey Santana, what’s up?” he drawls, cool, looking you up and down, leaning by sink and chewing on a carrot stick he’s sneaked from one of the crudité plates you made.

“’Sup Squirt?” you shoot back, grinning.

He flinches at the nickname. It doesn’t really apply anymore, because he has a good couple of inches on you since puberty kicked in, but you say it for old time’s sake. He looks a lot more comfortable now he’s back in his Converse and skinny jeans. The kid’s a walking cliché, but still, it’s cute.

“Make yourself useful and take these out to the table please,” Belinda gestures to the food on the counter. “If you’re feeling extraordinarily kind, offer some around perhaps?”

“Mom, come on!” he whines. “I’m with Trent and Ricky.”

“God forbid they see you’re helpful!” Belinda sighs.

You glance outside and see the two of them over by John’s makeshift DJ booth, looking like escaped rejects from Hot Topic. You know for a fact that Trent sometimes steps in for John at glee club when he’s too busy to make it, but you don’t want to wreck the illusion.

“Anyway, she’s a waitress right?” he points at you with what’s left of the carrot. “She can do it.”

“Cameron!” Belinda’s offended enough for you both, but you don’t much care. It’s kind of funny.

“So they say,” you reply, wryly. “Good tips you know. You should try it sometime. Breadstix is hiring. Girls like a guy with money,” you continue, leaning over the counter and winking at him.

You practically see light bulb go on above his head.

“Yeah, maybe,” he tries to look unimpressed and fails miserably. “Do I get a tip now then?”

“Capitalism is alive and well in Lima!” you laugh, and he smiles.

“No you do not!” Belinda says, putting the plates in his hands and shoving him out the door. “Come on. Out. Now!” she shoos him along, but eventually goes ahead of him, taking one of the plates.

“Hey,” you call, making him turn back. “How does ten bucks work for ya?” you step forward, almost into view of the yard, and slip the note into his shirt pocket.

“Sweet,” he nods. “You’re totally the best girlfriend Brittany had.”

You shake your head, resisting the urge to roll your eyes at him, because obviously he’s just being stupid, trying to make himself look good. “Whatever, Squirt.”

He makes a face, half amused half annoyed, and darts off in the direction of Quinn, Tina and Sugar, but for a split second, you think he might _actually_ mean it. That’s kind of scary, because he’s probably the least sentimental person you’ve met. If he didn’t look so much like Brittany, you’d swear he was adopted. You never considered yourself a good girlfriend, not even in that blissful time in senior year, basking in the glow of a Nationals win and you and Brittany were officially official and no one said a damn thing to you. Even if they did, you wouldn’t have cared, you had Brittany, and everything really _was_ better with feelings. When things got serious, you still had your training wheels on, and you never really felt like you gave Brittany all you could. After that, things got a whole lot worse because of feelings, but you try to remember what Quinn said, and force yourself not to dwell on it.

You’re ready now. Whatever ready means. Maybe it means putting ghosts to rest or burying the hatchet. Maybe it means laying your cards on the table, and telling the whole truth. Maybe it means changing your life … again. Maybe it means all those things. You step out into the yard proper, down the decking steps, You snatch up one of the plastic cups off the drinks table on the deck and head straight for the alcohol, bypassing all the punch, iced tea, orange juice and homemade lemonade in the coolers. It’s risky, because the Pierces are kind of strict about alcohol, but she’s in need of some liquid courage. Thank God for Brittany’s uncle Michael and his Jack Daniels obsession. You pour nothing more than a shot, glancing over at the grill to see if Eddie is watching. He’s not, so you down it in one, wincing at the kick, but relishing the burn you get, before pouring in some of the lemonade, filling the cup to the brim so you can wait between refill trips.

Standing and drinking for a moment, you put your sunglasses back on, so you can watch everyone without looking creepy, hips unconsciously swaying to the Katy Perry record blaring out, you nod and wave when people spot you. It’s not half as weird as you thought, and you relax, just a fraction, beginning to soak it all up. Half your problem is that you think too much and say far too little, at least when it comes to being honest as opposed to snarky (you prefer witty, but not everyone gets your humour). You find Brittany easily and move toward her in a little half dance, half walk, that you’ve perfected over the years. It makes it look like you’re just wandering around, with no real purpose, so if people block your way – Puck looks like be might come over, cocking his head up by way of a hello – it’s not weird, and you still get to where you want to be, it just takes longer. You nod back, holding up a finger to let him know you’ll come over soon. When Quinn catches your gaze, she smiles, and you can practically feel the encouragement she’s sending.

Brittany’s talking to Kurt and Blaine, drinks in hand, oblivious to your presence. She looks so happy and calm, you almost don’t want to disturb her. The early evening sun catches her profile just so, and you’re certain she’s never looked more beautiful than now. Summer Brittany is your favourite, all braids and daisy chains, bare feet and pretty pastel summer dresses. Bohemian and ethereal. She laughs at something Kurt says, real and full; her whole face lights up. The breath stalls in your lungs as you watch her in awe. You blink and blink trying to catalogue it; wishing it took real pictures, so you can remember this very moment.

She’s close enough to touch now, and your heart picks up a little, thudding loud in your ears. Now you’re here, you, you aren’t sure how to get her attention, and you feel kind of stupid. The days of reaching up and covering her eyes so she guesses it’s you or sneaking up behind her and slipping your arms around your waist before she kisses you are long, long gone.

Blaine notices you first, hovering just behind Brittany. His mouth quirks into a small, knowing smile that tells you he’s probably been talking to Quinn.

“Britt,” he says quietly, motioning to you with his cup, not wanting to interrupt the Vogue story Kurt’s telling. You’ve heard it a hundred times at least, so she’s really not losing out.

Then, she turns around; lightning fast and torturously slow at once. The look on her face when she recognises you is a perfect mix of joy, excitement and surprise all rolled into one.

“Graduating looks good on you, B,” you take off your sunglasses again, offering up your cup in toast.

“You’re here!” Brittany exclaims, pulling the same hug attack move Belinda did. It’s so sudden, that you both spill some of your drinks in the process. It doesn’t seem to matter.

“I am,” you smirk, gazing at her through your lashes as you take a sip of what’s left of your drink. You remember that Quinn told you that’s your flirty look, so you glance away, and make a conscious effort to tone it down. You’ve had a lot of practice, after all.

“Are you OK? Do you want some food? Another drink?” she asks, hurriedly, hands resting square on your shoulders as she looks at you, blushing at the same time.

Kurt’s dramatic “Oh God, _finally!_ ” only just registers above the barrage of questions, but you laugh anyway.

“I’m good,” you nod, and she looks a little crestfallen. “I do have something for you though. In the kitchen, if you don’t mind going inside for a minute?”

There was a time, not so long ago, where you wouldn’t even have to ask that question, you’d just thread your fingers together with Brittany’s and lead her off toward the house, confident she’d follow without asking anything in return. You’re not so confident anymore. It’s still a little like walking on eggshells, even if they’re stronger than they look.

“Ooh what is it?” she’s even more excited than before. It’s adorable.

“A present,” you pause, suddenly conscious of the fact that you might need to tone this down too. It’s a huge thing to you, because of how long it’s been in your life, but Brittany might not. She might think it’s fantastically lame. “Just a little something to celebrate graduation. Life milestone and all that.”

“That’s so sweet,” she replies, soft, and suddenly it feels like no one else exists. She dumps both the cups on the grass and takes your hand, lacing your fingers together, pulling you toward the house before you can even think of speaking. “You really didn’t have to,” she continues smiling the same shy smile she did during the ceremony.

“I wanted to,” you admit, quietly. Maybe you’ll tell her just how long you’ve been wanting to some day.

It feels the most natural thing ever walking along with her like this; because your hand fits hers just right, but at the same time, it’s the most unnatural thing ever. You’re certain everyone’s watching and whispering and it’s making you uneasy, stirring up too many bad memories and making you doubt the reason you came at all. Maybe you should’ve just left the gift on the doorstep and gone home? Well, it’s too late for that. Much too late. Now you’re inside the house, and pretty much out of view, you want pull to away, just to try and regain some control. Somehow. It’s been a long time and there’s some invisible barrier between you, because of time and distance and all the things you kept to yourself and never ever say.

You wonder if she’s going to close the doors, so everyone else can’t hear, but she doesn’t and you don’t know whether to feel relieved or not, because you wanted this to be a private moment. You’ve always done presents that way, even when you were little, she always used to say that your presents were special, and no one else could see them first apart from the two of you. The fact she might not feel that way anymore, that it’s just another present, is more painful than it should be.

“I hope you like it,” you say, tossing your sunglasses down and barely glancing at her as you nudge the bag closer to her side of the counter. You stand, feeling useless, wishing you’d worn something with pockets instead, just so you have something to occupy your hands with.

In the end, you lean against the counter and cross your arms, knowing it makes you look edgy and defensive.

“Of course I will! It’s from you, silly,” she gives you this look, so pleased, so adoring, and so unexpected, it hits you square in the chest. “Oooh, it has curling ribbon and everything!” she hops on to one of the stools around the breakfast bar, turning the bag around and looking at the tag. “Pretty.”

Admittedly, you _did_ go a little overboard with the decoration and the wrapping. That’s what you get for being eighteen, entirely lovesick and wandering around in the mall looking at bows and wrapping for hours on end. You picked out her favourite colours. Of course, it’s insanely bright and clashes because the bag is pink, the wrapping is yellow and purple, the bows are blue, and it’s so shiny that it could be an all points bulletin for every magpie in Lima, but it’s so very Brittany that you didn’t have the heart to change it.

_Congratulations baby. I’m so proud of you!  
Love always, Santana xxxx_

You look away again – because, _fuck_ that tag should’ve been rewritten too – counting the tiles on the floor to distract yourself and suppress the massive urge you have to run. Strangely, this moment; this meant to be nice and happy moment, feels worse than the hallway at school, and every other time you dared to confess things to her. You’re still confessing the same kinds of things, the words never really change, but the weight behind them does.

Brittany hums her appreciation, but you know it had to hurt too. You still mean it, you’d still have written the very same message if you’d brought the gift this weekend, but of course, the meaning wouldn’t be the same. You’re meant to be working at being friends again. Friends love, you love Quinn to death, but it’s not the love you have for Brittany.

You watch, just starting to feel pleased with yourself as she as she shakes the first gift, curious.

“I carried that around for an entire year,” you blurt out, as she starts to unwrap the first present, because there’s no real reason to lie.

She swivels around to face you, still holding the half unwrapped gift. “You did?” there’s a hint of surprise in her voice, maybe a little disbelief too.

“Yeah. I didn’t feel right after what … happened.”

“Santana,” she chuckles. “You’re allowed to say I failed, I won’t burst into tears.”

You smile nervously, and wonder if this can get any more awkward. “I, I ended up keeping it. I just couldn’t let it go.”

You cringe inwardly when it registers what you actually just admitted, but the look on her face makes you feel less embarrassed. It’s the look that says ‘Santana Maribel Lopez, you’re the sweetest girl in the world.’ You’d prefer emotionally stunted idiot, but she’s not that negative of a person. She sees the good, even when there is none.

When she finally gets the paper off, she squeals, like you knew she would. Almost every gift you’ve ever given her has contained a teddy: ones with tiny t-shirts with her age on or funny slogans; hats; sunglasses; fairy wings; tutus; hearts. She has them all on a shelf in her room, and there’s barely enough space for another, but you bought it anyway. You couldn’t let her collection lack a graduation bear. Some things just need to happen. It made it into your shopping cart faster than anything, and you spent an entire afternoon dressing it with the cap and gown, and making sure all the accessories were safe.

“You got me a Build-A Bear?” she beams, her voice going a whole octave higher, inspecting its clothes and tiny diploma before cuddling it to herself. “Oh my God, it’s so cute! Thank you!”

Whatever was left of your heart dissolves entirely. It’s pretty much a replay of the jittery video you still have on your phone of when you sent her a bear dressed in a Louisville Cardinals shirt in the mail.

“You’re welcome,” you reply, a little choked. “I thought you could give her a good home,” you continue, edging a little closer to her.

She quirks an eyebrow, amused. “Her?”

“Totally a girl. I hear she got a killer SAT score. She’s going to school in New York come the fall.”

“Oh really? We could be roomies then, huh?” she grins, putting the bear to her ear as if it’s speaking to her. “Oh really? I hope you like cats. That’s a dealbreaker,” she nods, sitting the teddy on the counter. “Tough call, I know.”

Your palms are suddenly sweaty again. The nerves you’ve fought to shake off all day surge back up. You quiet, pursing your lips closed, swallowing down the words that are dying to escape, sat on the very tip of your tongue: choose me. Be with me. Love me again. She doesn’t mean anything. She’s just playing around. It wouldn’t work because you live in a shitbox apartment in Brooklyn, and the landlord would freak if he found Tubbs, even if he’s the only cat you’d even think of breaking the terms of your lease for. Oh, and the commute to Manhattan would suck ass after a while. Still, it’s a nice dream, and being pretty much in the same place after all this time will be nice. You’ll get to show her all the cool places you’ve found, go shopping, ride around on the subway and hanging out with Rachel and Kurt will be infinitely cooler, and visiting Quinn at Yale will be twice as fun. Being friends could work. That could be enough. It was once. Today it feels like more than you ever could’ve hoped for.

“Two presents?” she says, surprised, as she reaches into the bag again.

“I couldn’t resist,” you shrug, and she shakes her head, disbelieving. It’s going to be a long time until she thinks she’s deserving of anything. “It’s well overdue, I know.”

A twinge of sadness cuts through you as she tears the corner of the paper, and you hear her let out a little gasp. She already knows what it is. She’d recognise the multi-coloured swirls on the cover anywhere. In her hands, not fully opened, is a new copy of Brittany’s most favourite book, _Oh the Places You’ll Go_.

“Santana … this …Tubbs ripped my copy,” is all Brittany manages to get out before she bursts into tears.

Not quite the reaction you were expecting, but then, you’re not sure what you were expecting either, because you never let yourself think this far ahead. Brittany still has her ratty taped up copy on her bookshelf, because she can’t bear to part with it, but as soon as you saw the deluxe one during a late night online shopping spree, you knew you had to buy it for her.

“Oh Britt-Britt,” you coo softly, reflex, turning the stool and pulling her into your arms.

You dip your head and breathe in the smell of her; shampoo and perfume and _Brittany_ down underneath it all. This is what you’ve missed. More than her voice, her touch, her kisses or the way she looks at you. You’ve missed all these reminders of her presence. The concrete little things that make her the real Brittany, instead of the version of her you conjured up in your head.

“I thought it’d make you happy. I know it’s a pretty obvious gift, but I also know it’s more special to you than most people, because of your Grandpa Pierce.”

“I am I am.” she replies between sobs. “It’s just … ” she sniffs, brushing away her tears. “I didn’t think you’d remember,” she continues, pulling back to look at you.

What she really means, and isn’t saying is ‘why do you still care?’ There’s only one real answer. It’s because you don’t know to go through life without caring, without loving her.

“Easy,” you declare with a smile, “I have a special place for all things Brittany S. Pierce.”

She starts to blur in front of you, and you stop yourself from saying where that place is, knowing it’s in your chest, beating away, strong, but less steady as you talk.

“If there was a Jeopardy episode all about me, you’d totally win,” she laughs, eyes brimming with fresh tears.

“I think it’d be a close tie with me and Tubbs though,” you chuckle, glancing over at him sleeping in his basket.

Weirdly, you’ve missed him wandering around seeking you out to be petted as much as you’ve missed doing the petting. You’ve told that supremely spoiled little feline too much while you’ve been cuddling him. The craziest has to be when you asked him to take care of Britt while you were in Louisville. Ridiculous perhaps, but it certainly didn’t do any harm either. You needed all the help you could get. That hasn’t changed, even if everything else has.

“San,” she begins, and you turn back, realising how much you’ve missed her saying that. No one else gets to shorten your name because of it.

“Hmm?”

“Do you want to sit and read it with me?” she gestures toward the book, cautiously. “I know it’s kinda silly because we’ve read it so many times together, and you probably want to go outside and have fun but –”

“B,” you put a hand on her forearm and she stops talking.

When she looks up at you, you see something in her eyes that you never have before. She’s embarrassed about what she’s saying. Obviously worried that the version of you who goes to college and holds down a job will think she’s even more childish than the version of you who helped her navigate the hell of McKinley. You never did. You never would. What other people see as naïve or ‘stupid’ you see as sweet and sentimental. She should never lose it, and you’ll do anything to help her keep it, because the world you’ve seen a glimpse of could so easily knock it out of her.

“I’d like to stay,” you reassure, sliding on to the stool next to her.

You could care less about the party now. All it’s been ever since you walked back in here with Brittany is a wall of noise. Anyway, it was just a means to an end, everyone knows, maybe even Brittany too, that the only reason you’re here is because she’s the one throwing it.

Brittany moves closer, carefully removing the book from its slipcase, admiring it.

“I don’t think I want to spoil it by opening it. I want to keep it perfect, like it is now,” she says, hushed, tracing her fingertips over the illustration on the cover.

Her grandpa used to tell you this book was magic, and that Dr Seuss was a very clever man indeed. You’re certain he was right. The memory of that first reading, when you were no more that six, sitting on the Pierces’ couch with Brittany is still vivid, thirteen years later. Henry Pierce was the oldest, wisest, kindest man you’ve ever met. As you listen, and she slowly turns the pages, savouring every image, you know she’s remembering it too. You wonder how Henry would feel about you now, sitting in this kitchen, overdressed for a party you’re not really attending, just to spend time with her. You hope he’d be pleased, you hope he’d approve, because her grandma does, and it only just dawned on you how important that acceptance is, even now, when you’re in this weird limbo place; in love, but pretending not to be.

Brittany’s reading slows, her voice cracks, heavy with sadness and you know why. You’ve reached the part of the story that always made you both sad, even as children. The Waiting Place. Except, that’s not just a melancholy concept anymore that you could only grasp to a point; it’s something you’ve experienced, that you’ve suffered because of. The truth of it strings more that it ever has before.

_Waiting for the fish to bite_  
 _or waiting for the wind to fly a kite_  
 _or waiting around for Friday night_  
 _or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake_  
 _or a pot to boil, or a Better Break_  
 _or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants_  
 _or a wig with curls, or Another Chance._  
 _Everyone is just waiting._

When she turns the page, you inhale sharply. There’s an envelope resting there, handwritten, bearing Brittany’s name. You didn’t just want to re-wrap the present, you needed to do it. She can’t read that. She just can’t. You surge forward, snagging the corner with two fingers, and she looks at you, confused.

“Santana, what’s this?”

“It’s nothing, Britt, really. Just give it here,” there’s an edge to your voice you don’t like. You’ve heard it before. So has she.

She moves it out of your reach, and it only makes you panic more, getting up off the stool to try and get it, snatching it away from her.

“It’s not important. It doesn’t matter, really. It’s nothing. Just let it go!” you’re half yelling by the end of it, and you can feel yourself getting worked up, and you shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t.

People are already starting to look in, concerned. This was wasn’t the plan. If you even had one.

You’re about to fight with her over something that’s not worth fighting over, but you’re afraid of what she’ll think when she reads what’s inside and what it’ll mean when she’s read it.

“Yeah, you said that,” she says, turning away. You’ve heard that steel in her voice before too.

You let out a long sigh, because she sounds so disappointed and kind of broken and you can’t stand it. “I wrote it a year ago. When we were together.”

“Oh.”

“Here,” you pass it to her, admitting defeat.

You’ve already lost the only thing ever worth the losing. Everything else is relative.

She opens the envelope slowly, and you turn away from her, arms folded, feeling terrible for making such a big deal of what’s actually a nice thing, but it’s just stirring up too much stuff. It was a mistake to come here. It was a mistake to hope. You’re pathetic and juvenile and you haven’t grown at all. Quinn would be ashamed of how you’re treating her. _You’re_ ashamed. It’s pride that’s making you like this, because you’ve don’t share what you write; poetry, songs (apart from when they forced you to in New York at Nationals), even lame, sappy knock-offs of Dr Seuss in the name of romance.

Your notebooks are private. Your writing is private. You might as well be completely naked. It would feel exactly the same.

“You wrote this for me?”

“Yeah,” you stare at the floor, willing it to swallow you whole. “It felt like a good idea at the time.”

_You’ll wait on a bench_  
 _or a chair or the floor,_  
 _and you’ll feel like you’ve never_  
 _been this lonely before._

_You’ll feel all alone,_  
 _like no one understands._  
 _And when your chest heaves a sigh,_  
 _and your palm swats your eye,_  
 _and the world rushes by,_  
 _then I’ll reach for your hand._

You pace up and down, listening to the tap-tap-tap of your heels, tuning out the party music while she reads; compelled to wait, to stay even though everything in you is telling you to turn tail and run, like every other time she’s challenged you to face something or shown you a part of yourself you don’t like. You don’t need to hear what it says.

_Because this big Waiting Place is lonesome and blue_  
 _and it gathers up people like leaves gather dew._  
 _Some of them stay and some just pass through._  
 _And some of us, not a lot, have a place in the queue,_  
 _for we’re waiting and waiting for what we once knew—_  
 _a what or a why or a when or a who._  
 _So if you find yourself waiting, don’t worry, don’t stew_  
 _because I’ve been here longer; I’m waiting, too._

_I’ll tell you to kiss me,_  
 _(ask, Did you miss me?),_  
 _and we’ll run and we’ll laugh—leave this place behind._  
 _The people still left, they won’t seem to mind._  
 _We’ll discover new places and faces and things_  
 _and we won’t always know what each new day brings._

It took four drafts, written on Saturday afternoon, curled up in the chair Brittany always used to sit in. Every word of it is still fresh in your mind, because you believe it, still, even now. You were so determined you’d make it, that you’d last, and you’d prove everyone who thought you were a bitch and she was just a dumb slut that you really did … really _do_ love each other. You swat at your face, angry for the tears that are coming, surprised there are any left where Brittany’s concerned.

_I’ll remember the wait—_  
 _how it hurt, how I cried,_  
 _how it seemed much too sad to really be true._

_But I’ll look in your eyes and it’ll all go away_  
 _and I’ll tell you these words on a sad rainy day_  
 _when the clouds make a stop and the sun won’t shine through:_

_“You might get lonely and you might get sad._  
 _You might think that the world’s taken all that you had._  
 _But just find that bench, all gloomy and blue,_  
 _and I’ll be right there._  
 _I’ll be waiting for you.”_

You hear a sob escape from her and you stop moving. Everything stops.

“Oh Jesus, Britt,” you practically run over to her, kneeling in front of her to check she’s OK. “I didn’t mean to do this. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you take the pages out of her hands, putting them on the counter.

You’re not apologising for now anymore.

She’s still crying, struggling to put words together as she tries to calm down – you think you hear “sweet” and “Santana,” and “I missed you so much” then you can’t make anything out. You reach up, brushing her tears away and pushing her hair off of her face. You take your opportunity, because really, there’s nothing else you can do. She has to know everything.

“I don’t deserve you, I really don’t … but I love you, Britt. I really do. We never should’ve broken up. I’m an idiot,” you take a quick breath, mind racing as you try to put it in a way that makes some sort of sense, taking both of Brittany’s hands in yours, fixed on her completely.

It’s the only way you’ll get through this.

“I’ve been fucking _dreaming_ about you being in New York for months, and now … I don’t know because I don’t know how you feel and I don’t know what you want, but I’m terrified now. B. I’m terrified because you’ll be in the same place as me, and I want it to be how it was between us,” your voice starts to give out, but you force yourself to carry on, even though she’s clearly even more upset than she was. “But … I don’t know if it can be, and that’s my fault. It’s all my fault, and I’ll regret it until I’m an old, old lady in Lima Senior Living.”

“Good,” she replies, and you’re sure that she’s smiling through her tears.

You straighten up slightly, confused, with no idea of where this is going at all. “What?”

“I said good,” she repeats, simply. “Because I’ll be right there with you, silly,” smiling, big and bright.

You shake your head in disbelief, stumbling over your words as it all clicks into place. “No, come on … You don’t …What?”

“I’ve had a lot time to think about this, about us and everything that’s happened. I've got a future now. I want it with you, Santana. In New York, if you want to … ”

For once on your life, you’re speechless, mouth gaping, brain lagging miles and miles behind. She looks so serious, so earnest, as if she’s waited a whole year just to say those eighteen little – big – words.

“If I want to?!” your voice sounds five times higher than normal. “ I know there’s so much we have to do and fix and work at, but there’s no _if_ Britt. There isn’t a solar system where I wouldn’t want you!” you stand up, rambling, flustered, trying to get your head around it. “Even that fucking Andromeda place or whatever,” you wave airily, frowning.

She stands up too, looking you in the eyes. You know that look. It means she’s about ten seconds from kissing you senseless, and you tense in anticipation.

“Andromeda’s a galaxy not a solar system,” she corrects, coolly, moving closer still,

“Same difference,” you smirk, shrugging. “Genius,” and you move too, hands dropping to rest on her hips. You’re close enough to see how hard she swallows because of it.

You’re thinking that maybe it’s too much, when she cuts off your thoughts. Her right hand comes up, brushing back hair that’s out of place, then drifts to your cheek, caressing, as if she’s trying to check you’re real. And then, it happens. She kisses you. Your heels and her bare feet make you the same height, and it feels odd not to have to lean up to kiss her. It’s not like you’ve imagined all this time; passionate and wild and greedy. It’s opposite. Like she’s as nervous as you are, trying to remember what to do and how to be. It’s weird not to tilt your head up when you brush your lips tentatively against hers, smiling against her lips at that first taste of her sticky-sweet cherry lipgloss. Your body leans instinctively toward hers and you know you haven’t forgotten.

For a moment, you just stand there, savouring the contact. She sighs, the content kind, and all the tension in you; all the weight you’ve been carrying, just, disappears. No one else and nothing else exists. When the kiss deepens, she’s the one that does it; She’s the one to deepen it, slow and tender as she pulls you closer, wrapping her arms around you hands and pulling you as close as humanly possible. You let out a little squeal as she lifts you clear off the ground, and kiss back that bit harder as you hold on to her, breaking the kiss to rest your head on her shoulder.

“I love you … so much,” she breathes, so quiet that you wonder if you imagined it.

“I love you too, baby,” you reply, hushed, squeezing her tight.

It’s only then you remember that you’re _not_ the only people in the world.

When you open your eyes, everyone is looking, all soft smiles and misty eyes, like they just witnessed a proposal instead of a reunion, waiting for one or both of you to speak and confirm it. You guess it is, in a way. A proposal to try again, to be better, to be more to each other than before. Quinn and Sugar are clinging to each other, jumping up and down, half cheering half squealing, full of “Oh my Gods” and clapping like seals because they’ve seen the whole fucking thing from start to finish. John and Mike are next to them grinning like idiots and high-fiving each other. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just them, but it’s not. It’s Brittany’s _entire_ family. You’re pretty sure you can add this to the neverending list of things you’ll never live down.

“Britt,” you hiss. “Everyone’s staring.”

“I don’t care,” she replies, putting you back down anyway. “I don’t care.”

She kisses you again, cupping your face with both of her hands, taking you completely by surprise, smiling into it. It’s slow and soft and delicate, and you realise how much you’ve missed kissing her. How much you’ve missed being hers. You hear Puck and some of the other boys wolf-whistling, and then Mercedes telling them to “simmer down” and you laugh lightly, resting your forehead against Brittany’s when she pulls back.

As you let the enormity of it all skin in, you just stand still, and just breathe, full and deep, like something’s been stopping you before now and you hadn’t noticed at all.

“So, I guess this means we’re back together huh?” you ask, half question half announcement.

“Yeah, it does,” she smiles, tilting her head to whisper in your ear. “I’m not in The Waiting Place anymore.”

You close your eyes, breathing a sigh of relief. As soon as she says that, you realise that you aren’t either. The switch has been thrown on your lives, and everything kicks back into gear. It won’t be easy, but you have faith. Brittany’s the only person you’ve ever trusted in. The future you’ve been imagining with her for so long feels within your grasp, concrete and achievable; clear in your mind’s eye, unfurling at lightning speed while she leads you both on to the deck and everyone gathers around, full of hugs and congratulations of a different kind. It’s pretty overwhelming and you’re unsure what to say or where to look. You can’t remember the last time you were this happy, and you’re smiling so much, your jaw’s starting to ache, but you don’t care.

Lima is your home again for the whole summer, not for a few days. You’ll go to Port Clinton again with Brittany’s family, like you have every year before this one, but it’ll be more special and more important than before. The days will go in a blur of beach walks, Frisbee tournaments, swimming, tanning, s’mores around the fire pit at night, Grandma Pierce’s stories, and Eddie’s little field trips to random places you’d never think of visiting. You’ll learn about each other all over again, and fall in love a second time. When fall comes, you’ll go back to school together; meeting in the middle between Manhattan and Brooklyn, so you still get to be in Brittany’s life, but she gets to have a life of her own too. She won’t flounder, and even if she does, you’ll be there when she needs you.


End file.
